


Dog Days of Summer

by calanthys



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M, Humor, M/M, Minor Allura/Shiro (Voltron), Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 09:04:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8050339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calanthys/pseuds/calanthys
Summary: Lance did not consider himself a man with terribly lofty goals. All he wanted to do was win the prestigious Battle of the Bands competition that took place at the end of every summer with his friends Hunk and Pidge, become famous, and maybe pick up some cute girls in the process. What Lance did not want was to ever see his arch-rival’s dumb mullet-framed face again, let alone play in the same band together in pursuit of a common goal. Ugh.(Too bad it happens anyway. Nobody ever said the road to stardom would be an easy one.)





	Dog Days of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to the lovely, wonderful, and terrible [yuu_chi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuu_chi) for being my muse and beta (also, please direct any and all complaints to her, without whom this fic would Most Definitely Not Exist). 
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for giving this little thing a shot! Hope you enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding the right bassist for your band is Serious Business.

Lance tried to stifle his frustrated sigh. He really, truly did. But Pidge shot him a Look anyway, and Hunk shook his head almost imperceptibly at him as they waited for the bassist – whose name, Lance was fairly sure, was something along the lines of Damian – to warm up.

They had been trying for the past week or so to recruit a bassist to fill their roster and sign up for the upcoming yearly Unsigned Only Battle of the Bands contest, with no luck. Everyone they’d tried out so far had either mediocre bass skills, piss-poor personalities, or both.

The bassist they were currently trying out made the ‘okay’ hand gesture, indicating that he was done with warming up and ready to start playing for real.

Pidge’s voice rang out sharply as she gave the signal to begin. “Five, six, five six seven eight!”

The crisp beats of her snare drum filled the air of the practice room with clockwork precision, accompanied by the occasional muffled _thump_ of the bass drum and tinny clatter of the hi-hat. Soon, Pidge’s drumming was accompanied by keyboard chords, guitar riffs, and—

“Wait, wait, no, stop right there, stop!” Lance pointed dramatically with his guitar pick at the bassist – what was his name, Daniel? Darrell? – who jumped at Lance’s sudden theatrics.

“What was that?” Lance demanded.

“What was what?” The bassist scrunched his nose in confusion.

“That! That… c’mon, man, you can’t _not_ know—” Lance gestured wildly with both arms and narrowly avoided knocking over a music stand.

Hunk, resident keyboardist of their fledgling band, jumped up from his seat and maneuvered around his instrument in a display of agility that belied his considerable bulk. He grabbed at the bassist’s arm, babbling over Lance as he half-guided, half-shoved the other guy towards the door. “Er, thanks for coming to try out with us bro, we really appreciate it! Listen, we’ll get back to you soon with our decision, okay? I’ll just see you out now since it’s getting late, and we’re just about to finish up anyway since it’s been a long day…” Hunk’s voice faded as he and the bassist left the room.

Lance let out a disgruntled sigh as he flopped onto the beaten-up sofa that was shoved into one corner. He ran a hand through his short brown hair, leaving sweat-damp strands sticking up haphazardly. “Why is it so difficult to find a good bassist?” He whined, face turned up towards the water-stained ceiling as if beseeching the heavens for an answer. The heavens, of course, did not deign to reply. “That last guy, David or whatever, was awful. I bet the only _beat_ he knows is the kind that’s round, red, and grows in the dirt.”

Pidge didn’t bother looking at Lance as she tucked away her drumsticks into a well-worn mallet bag – one that used to belong to her older brother before he couldn’t fit all his percussion gear into it anymore. “You’re right, he did suck pretty bad, but maybe we’d have better luck finding decent prospective band-mates if your ‘networking’ extended beyond putting up skeevy-sounding Craigslist ads and calling it a day.” Curling her fingers into exaggerated air-quotes, Pidge’s voice deepened in a rough approximation of Lance’s usual tone. “‘ _Wanted: bassist for our band, emphasis on the A-S-S.’_ I can’t believe you actually got any response at all, let alone multiple.”

Hunk chose this moment to reappear at the doorway, chiming in, “I’m with Pidge on this one, dude. Your ad sounds like it was written by someone really, really thirsty. And not in the way that a good drink would fix.”

Lance let out an indignant squawk at the betrayal. “Hunk, we’ve known each other for forever! You’re supposed to be on my side! I’m gonna revoke your ‘life-long best friend’ title!”

Hunk ignored Lance’s obviously-empty threat. He turned to Pidge and asked, “Your brother used to be part of the indie band scene too, right? Could you ask him and see if he knows anyone who might be able to play bass for us? Maybe we’d get some better results via word-of-mouth than by just relying on the internet—no offence, Lance.”

Lance crossed his arms in a manner indicating that he took _all the offence._

Pidge lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Maybe. Matt’s been pretty busy after getting into the LA Phil, so I haven’t talked to him in a while. I’ll see what I can do, but don’t go expecting any miracles. For now, though, Hunk has a point. It is getting late, and I don’t know about you guys but after three whole hours of trying out crummy bassists, I’m starving.”

As if to underscore Pidge’s statement, Hunk’s stomach grumbled loudly, right on cue.

Lance grinned, phone already in hand. “Anyone else down for a takeout party?”

\--

Several days passed, with no more success at landing a bassist for the band than before. While the trio continued to meet up everyday at Pidge’s house and practice in the basement that they’d commandeered as their official rehearsal space, the uncertainty over the vacant spot on their band roster was starting to take a noticeable toll.

“What are we gonna do, guys? It’s been almost two weeks and we haven’t heard from any more bassists interested in trying out, even after we rewrote Lance’s terrible Craigslist ad! What if we don’t find one at all? We should’ve just settled for one of the guys from before, even if they weren’t the best. At least then we'd actually _have_ a bassist.” Hunk fretted as he paced back and forth in their practice room. Pidge was sitting cross-legged on the ground, quietly tapping her drumsticks against a drum practice pad, while Lance sprawled on the couch and plucked randomly at his guitar.

“We still have plenty of time, Hunk, the competition isn’t until the beginning of September, and it’s, like, barely late May right now. Plus, we sound great without a bassist anyway!” Lance tried to reassure him, but even to his own ears, the words rang slightly hollow.

Finding a bassist was just the beginning. They still had to practice together and learn to adapt to the additional band member. Up until this point, Pidge and Hunk combined had carried their group’s sound, with Pidge providing the rhythmic backbone, and Hunk covering the bass lines on the keyboard. Having a bassist to provide the musical foundation would lift much of the burden off their shoulders, but they'd have to rewrite all their music to accommodate the extra part. There were a lot of logistics to consider.

Hunk did not seem convinced either, and continued pacing.

“You were the one who wanted us to recruit a bassist, Lance,” Pidge piped up from her spot on the ground. “You said, and I quote, _‘With a kickass bassist, we’ll stomp the competition for sure at this year’s Battle of the Bands.’_ ”

Lance groaned and threw Pidge a half-hearted glare. “Why is your memory so good?”

Pidge smirked in response as she continued to tap complex rhythms out on the practice pad. “Anything you say can and will be used against you. Get used to it.”

Lance frowned down at his guitar. “I thought we were a band, not a court of law. I came here today to have a good time jamming with my bros, but I’m feeling _so attacked_ right now.” He plucked at its strings again. “Hunk, does this sound off to you?”

Hunk, interrupted mid-pace, thought for a moment before replying. “Yeah, it sounds a bit out of tune. I brought my tuner with me today if you want to use it, though.” He dug through his bag for the tuner and tossed it towards Lance.

“Thanks. Glad to know that at least you’ve got my back, unlike _certain other people_ I could mention.”

Pidge suddenly took a keen interest in her phone, occasionally tapping at the screen in rapid-fire bursts.

For a few minutes, the only other sounds in the room came from the tuner, Hunk’s footsteps, and Lance’s guitar as Lance fiddled with the tuning knobs and tested out various chords. Then Pidge spoke up again. “Guys, I’ve got some good news regarding our vacant bassist spot.”

“What?” Lance sat up, guitar tuning forgotten. Hunk also stopped pacing.

“Matt got back to me just now, said that he managed to get in touch with Shiro, the bassist from his old group—”

Lance held up a hand, gesturing for Pidge to stop. “Hold on, Pidge, hold up just a tick. Do you mean Shiro as in _Takashi Shirogane_ , the bassist that everyone said was gonna make it big and become the next John Paul Jones until his group suddenly disbanded?”

“Well, I don't know about him being the next John Paul Jones or whatever, but yeah, that Shiro, I guess. Anyway, Matt put me in touch with him. We talked for a bit, and he said that he’ll be free to come over to practice with us this Saturday, if that’s okay.”

Hunk looked like he wanted to faint in relief at the news.

Lance gaped at Pidge for a moment. “Okay? You’re telling me that Shiro, who is _only_ one of the coolest bassists ever in the history of bassists, is willing to come here to jam with us, and you’re asking if it’s _okay_? Dude, how can you be so calm about this? Shit, I can’t believe Shiro’s gonna be at our practice, and we’re gonna get to jam together. It’ll be so awesome!”

“You could maybe dial back the hero worship a little bit there,” Pidge remarked dryly. “Wouldn’t want to scare him off with your massive fanboy crush.”

“Screw you, I’ll hero worship who I want.” Lance replied, but there was no real heat in his retort. “That guy’s seriously _amazing_. With Shiro as our bassist, this year’s Unsigned Only competition is in the bag!”

“Oh, and one more thing,” Pidge added, looking back at her phone again. “Shiro said he wants to bring a friend along, too.”

Lance flapped a hand at Pidge dismissively. He was barely paying attention anymore, too caught up in a heady rush of anticipation and excited daydreams. “Yeah, yeah, alright, cool. He can bring whomever he wants. It’s fine.”

Famous last words, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Congratulations on making it through this somewhat-slow first chapter! The pace should start picking up soon, so hang tight. :)
> 
> Feel free to leave any questions/concerns/critique in the comments section (especially if you've noticed any typos, so I can get right to fixing them). I'd be really happy if this turns out to be something y'all want to see more of!


End file.
